


secrets, secrets

by accioambition



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Book, Emma doesn't show up, F/M, Friendship, Light Angst, but they talk about her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:45:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8414215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accioambition/pseuds/accioambition
Summary: Those damn shears. They'll either mean the death of his love or three steps back in their relationship. If Killian can just keep the shears safe and hidden, maybe he'll come out the other side unscathed.Then again, sometimes friends make things more difficult.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this idea was a great one until the sneak peek kinda ruined it. but i wrote it anyways.

It’s not the first time he’s carried a burden as heavy as this one. He’s carried much heavier in his days.  Even so, keeping a secret from Emma – he’s just been on the other end of that request and he didn’t like the result.

But he can’t let her die. She can’t leave him, not when they’ve finally got a future to look forward to. _Together_. If there’s a way to ensure that she stays with him, you damn well bet he’s going to keep it in his arsenal – no matter how selfish it may seem.

The shears, though, aren’t as easily hidden as he originally thought. Ideally, he’d keep them on his person at all time. Who but the gods could know when Emma might need them, when he might need to save her the most? But the way Swan hung to him – her hand in his, wrapped around his hook, an arm around his waist and another scratching at the nape of his neck – she’d find it instantly. Nor does he want to arouse her suspicion by stalling her affections.

(Nor keep himself from her. She’s like the drink itself. Her touch intoxicates, has him begging for more and more until he’s lost in the jewels of her eyes or the wave of her hair.

He is a selfish man. If he cannot save her, even with the magic shears, he wants to remember the taste of her lips and the sound of her smile.)

Logically, he should then hide them in the house. In their house. In _their_ home. It’s plenty large enough, with enough nooks to successfully keep the shears from her eyes.

But she’s smart, his Swan. She’s savvy with that superpower of hers and the moment she feels that something about him is off – that he’s keeping a secret – she’ll go snooping around, on the hunt for the truth.

He also doesn’t want to soil the idea of _home_. It’s been so long since either of them have felt it, warm and settled in their hearts. The building itself is already dense with dark memories they’re trying – and succeeding in his mind – to erase. To add more unnecessary trouble would recant and undo all the hard work they’ve already put in to healing.

And thus, there’s only one spot in all of town he knows his secret will be safe.

Despite her secret being out in the open, Emma still finds calm in speaking with the cricket. She’s with him now – the real cricket, he’s been assured – as he walks up the gangplank. The Jolly Roger was the only lady in his life for so long, coming back only feels only slightly less like home than the clanging pots and pans or chatter of the picture screen that greet him these days.

She listens to another master now. Or mistress, rather. Carefully stepping down into the captain’s quarters, he can’t help but chuckle at how it’s evolved. He’d only ever had enough to fill one chest, perhaps a bit more when Milah or Liam were alive, but now it shows a woman’s touch. The bookshelves about the room are filled to bursting. Patches of lace and soft pastels hang off the walls and lay on the table.

“You’re looking stunning, lass,” he says to no one. “Belle’s treating you kindly.”

He runs his hand along the side of the bed, the wood that holds it up though frayed and fractured. There’s one place – a little compartment within arm’s reach of the pillow – where he used to keep his pistol. It should be barren, the perfect size for these damned shears.

Sliding back the cupboard’s door, he’s shoving the shears in when the wood shifts and the deck creaks. Someone’s aboard. Quickly, he slides the board back over the shears and into place, his eyes searching for some weapon all the while.

The clunk of footfalls grow louder and closer until one high heel appears at the top of the ladder, and then the other. He sighs when he realizes its Belle, cautiously watching her footing as she sinks into the cabin.

When she turns around, she starts, her hand flying to her heart before chuckling. “Oh, hello there,” Belle greets him. “What are you doing here?”

Tongue flicking out to lick his lips and give him a minute to think, he shrugs. “Merely checking the old lass’s rigging and such, making sure she’s in tip top shape.”

Belle’s chin tips down and her brows scrunch together. “Okay.”

(She’s onto his plotting.

Best not to dally.)

“Well, best be off,” he says with faux cheer. Sweeping his hook behind his back so as not to accidentally harm her, he moves around the furniture to make his getaway as quickly as possible. “Don’t want milady to be wa-”

“What are you really doing here, Killian?” Her question freezes him, one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder.

He looks down before glancing and meeting her gaze over his shoulder. “Just as I said,” he says slowly, enunciating each syllable, “checking the Jolly Roger.”

He hears her exasperated sigh and it shames him. He’s become truly horrendous at keeping secrets since he opened his heart to Swan and the town that’s adopted him.

“Killian, do you know why I left Rumple?” Belle asks.

Resigned to the fact that he’s been caught, he turns to face her, his back resting against the ladder. “The Crocodile didn’t think it wise to tell you his truths.”

“And now you aren’t either.” Crossing her arms over her chest, Belle glares at him. “You’re hiding something, Killian, something big. And by sneaking around like this, you aren’t any better than Rumple.”

That riles him up, as he’s sure she meant to do. His spine straightens and he bounces off the ladder, stalking toward Belle to hide the flush rising on his cheeks and the flustered words coming from his mouth. “How dare you insinuate-”

“It’s not an insinuation if it’s the truth,” she quips back unflinchingly. He should’ve known: she’s used to this. She’s strong, takes little nonsense when it comes to the more important aspects of life. “What’s wrong, Killian? You can tell me.” Though, surprising even him, she comes closer to say, “You can trust me.”

His eyes connect with hers and he silently dares her to look away. But the fire behind her eyes is stronger. He sighs, the anger and frustration toward himself leaking away. Turning about, he returns to the small cupboard and removes the shears. Clinking the metal of the scissors to the metal of his hook, he returns to Belle’s side.

“Before his death, Hyde told Emma her fate,” he explains. Staring down at the shears, there’s a lump in his throat he’s forced to speak around to continue. “He told her all saviors die.”

Belle physically recoils in surprise, but remains quiet in response.

“And Swan’s been having visions of the future,” he says, “where she dies. Before me and her parents and Henry. It’s what’s been causing her such distress.” Breathing deeply through his nose, he meets Belle’s gaze once more, holding up the shears. “She found another savior. Or, rather, former savior. He escaped his fate by ridding himself of the burden with these.”

Now she makes a small noise of understanding. “And she told you to get rid of them,” she states simply.

He nods. “She believes them to be in Davy Jones’ locker.”

Silence grows between them. She’s letting him stew in his own guilt, knowing his own time to reflect will make her words all the more impacting. “You must tell her the truth, Killian, or get rid of them for real.”

“But,” he stumbles to say. His heart threatens to break at the mere thought of life without his Swan. “I can’t. I’ve just come back to her. I’ve lost her so many times. I can’t.” He gulps, staring at the shears with malice. “Not again.”

It’s while he’s glaring at the scissors that he feels a hand land on his shoulder. Belle’s presence is comforting, calming him and pulling him away from the edge of breaking. “Tell her,” she mutters. “She loves you, and you love her. She’ll understand. She’ll forgive you.” Smiling encouragingly, she emphasizes her words with a nod. “Maybe not right away, but eventually.”

“But-”

“You know this town is not going to let anything happen to Emma,” she reasons as she squeezes his shoulder. “Between you and Henry alone, an opponent should be frightened.”

He chuckles at that, though it be weak and not completely convinced. But he wanders over to the cupboard beneath the pillow and puts the shears back. “Thank you, Belle,” he says, turning to look at her again. “I trust I can leave these to your keeping?”

She nods and grins. “I shan’t move them.”

With a solemn nod, he heads back to the ladder. Halfway up, he crouches back into the captain’s quarters and asks, “Do you need anything? I can retrieve it and bring it back.”

Belle laughs and shoos him away. “Go tell Emma,” she urges. Her hand comes to rest on her stomach protectively. “I won’t be the reason you procrastinate.”

“Of course,” he mumbles to himself. But he heeds her warning and heads back into the waning sunlight. Swan should be through with her conversation with the cricket. She’ll be back at the house, seeing Henry get to his studies or pondering whether to attempt to cook once more. Living the life she so deserves for the time she has left of it.

(If he’s got anything to do with it, regardless of her ire, she’ll have plenty of time.)

She’ll be back at their house.

She’ll be back home.

And, like a ship heading to port, so will he.


End file.
